Sketchbook Poems

Despite my mother's declaration that I "always was an artist," my attempts to draw have always been disappointing. I'd take sketchbooks with me to various inspiring landscapes and ultimately end up doodling words, not images. A few samples ensue.

 8-5-05, Lincoln City, OR

1

The seagulls
or the small girls squealed
as the cold ocean crested.

2

Hemming the shoreline
in anonymous seams
they declare themselves
in their T-shirts
and dogs' names:
Pippin
Max
Madison
or was that the son?

3

Waves bring no answers
from afar
but do not hold their tongue
long enough for my mind
to ask a question.
Rest.


8-8-09, Alps Boulder Canyon Inn, Colorado

Caravans carve the canyon
rushing rounded trails
to vacation destinations around the bend.
Time to go around the bend
but no time to stop.

Sun peers over the peak and
through the leaves, both ancient--on
the arete--and new--in the
potted plants.

Two lines gleam in the sun
extending its rays: the power line
tracing the highway's caravanned curves,
and a silky spidery gatekeeper's
fencing off of blossomed territory.